Chapter 33 #2
I sat back on my heels, gaping down at the beautiful feast before me, a buffet of pleasure—one I'd just partaken of, but could be easily persuaded to do so again.
Brigid, with her thighs splayed open over my lap, her nipples red from being nibbled and sucked, and her hair a riotous mess over the pillows, groaned and swatted a hand through the air between us.
"Don't," she growled, kittenish and weak, hand falling to rest over her rounded belly, drawing my eyes there.
"Don't?" I repeated, my own voice throaty with a purr.
"I can't," she moaned, trying to wiggle back from me but finding the headboard keeping her trapped.
I laughed and relented, bending over to drop simple kisses between her breasts and over the rise of her stomach to its highest point, withdrawing from her with a groan of relief and protest in equal measure.
Her legs closed and turned away from me as I moved to curl up against her back.
Not that I couldn't take her this way too.
I would remind her of as much in a few hours when she started to squirm against me in her sleep.
"I've been thinking," Brigid murmured, taking one of my hands to wrap my arm around her chest. She brought my knuckles to her lips, and I let my face relax into an absurd smile, hiding it against Brigid's hair.
"We need to tell the local dragonkin about our bonding," she continued.
My eyes widened, and I tried not to yelp out my enthusiasm. "You think your dragon is coming?"
Brigid shook her head and then squirmed backward, nestling tighter against me. "Not really, but I think it would be better to be clear about what the bonding might mean. They might not notice I wasn't aging so soon, but if I bore you another son in a few years, that would certainly shock the kin."
My purr could not be restrained, not just at the thought of Brigid and a parcel of children to match us, but that my reserved omega was discussing our bond. She'd danced around the topic for months, shrugging when I asked her questions about her dragon or the future.
"You're right, of course, mate," I said, my voice growling in satisfaction around the word mate. And in my arms, she melted just enough for me to notice. "Do you like when I call you that?"
Brigid was quiet for a minute and I tried not to sigh in disappointment, assuming I'd pushed her just that tiny measure too far. "I do," she whispered instead.
I could do nothing but purr in answer for an even longer pause, one of my legs rising to cover hers, to tangle her firmly against me, trying to force down the persistent craving I always had for this woman.
"I'm sure I would feel the same if I heard you say it," I said, trying to sound reassuring, but there was too much need, a hint of a whine exposing the plea I hid in the statement.
Brigid wiggled in my arms, huffing impatiently, but when I eased my hold she simply turned to face me. One of her hands rose and stroked over my cheek, a long leg sliding between mine, her smooth, bare thigh caressing like silk against my own.
"Thank you for taking such care with me, mate," Brigid said, and the corners of her mouth hooked as I shuddered and restrained a groan of pleasure.
She leaned in and kissed my chin, as close as she could reach with her firm, round stomach trapped between us.
I loved the feel of her pressing hard against me.
I would not trade a moment of these months with her, but I also knew I would relish our union again after the pregnancy and her healing, when I could cover her head to toe, every inch of her body against mine at once.
My hands stroked her sides, and I wondered if she was terribly tired or if I was slow, gentle, patient, I might coax her into another roll in our sheets.
And then, before I could start to peck kisses at her lips—brief, light ones that would irritate her into grabbing me and fusing our lips properly—there was a whisper light nudge against my stomach, directly from hers.
We both froze, breaths stolen. Brigid's eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter, my own wide and stupefied.
"Is that—?" I started, then hiccuped as another firmer touch prodded against me.
"Oof." Brigid laughed and leaned back, her hand falling from my cheek to cover the spot on her belly. "Seems someone is awake."
I gaped at her, then down at her hand. She pulled it aside, and it was too dark in our room for me to make anything out, if there was anything to see.
"Here," Brigid said, catching my hand and drawing it to her belly, laying it where hers had been and then nudging slightly upward. "Ah, on the move, I see."
I waited, breathless, for several beats of time until a gentle touch, like a finger muffled through woolen layers and Brigid's silken skin—and not like that at all—pushed against me just enough for me to know, to know that our child was there with us.
"That was a wing, I think. They tickle," Brigid said, smiling at me.
I didn't know what my own face was doing. All of my attention, all of my senses, were wholly stolen by the slight back and forth pressure against my palm.
"It's wonderful," Brigid said, sighing, eyes falling shut. Then her brow furrowed a little. "Put a pillow at my back."
I switched hands and hurried to obey, settling my mate inside a nest made of pillows and my embrace as our child waved a wing in greeting to me. Our first hello, our first touch.
There had been a fire today, I thought distantly. My throat was tired, and my hair—in spite of a good washing—still faintly stank of smoke. But it was a perfect night, I decided. One of many more to come.